


My Colour Looks Good on You

by theraccoonloon



Category: Cats - Andrew Lloyd Webber, Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats - T. S. Eliot
Genre: F/F, Figureskater!Victoria, Fluff, Hockeyplayer!Jemima, Oneshot, i meant for this to be much shorter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:22:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theraccoonloon/pseuds/theraccoonloon
Summary: Prompt: I got dragged to this sports event by my friend and I have no idea what’s going on but you’re really hot so I don’t care all that muchJemima is disappointed with her uncle when he takes her to the place she wanted to be the least. Beautiful girls always manage to make bad nights better.
Relationships: Jemima & Rum Tum Tugger, Jemima/Victoria (Cats), Mr. Mistoffelees & Victoria (Cats), Mr. Mistoffelees/Rum Tum Tugger (Cats)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	My Colour Looks Good on You

“Uncle Tugger, I don’t know how you got convinced this would be my scene. Heck, this isn’t even your scene!” Jemima shivers in the cold of the rink. She rubs her hands together and blows breaths into cupped palms.

“Heck? My oh my, Little Jemmy, don’t throw a tantrum.” Her tall uncle pulled her in under his arm. She gets swallowed by the luxurious fur coat her uncle wore whenever he went out. The thick smell of cologne and cigarettes was so familiar that it had become comforting. She looks up at him as he pulls her along with those long languid steps of his. 

“I can drive. You know I can say heck.” Tugger’s niece always _always_ puffed her cheeks out like a chipmunk when she was trying to be upset. It was never intimidating. Every time it made him laugh. No wonder she’s always complaining about getting teased. He kept pushing her on forward through the stands. “That’s not the point. Why are we here, Tuggy? Jemima tugs on the side of his jacket firmly almost hard enough to pull her uncle off his swagger.

“Because I have friends in high places and got us excellent seats.” Tugger digs one of his hands into the practically infinite depths of his pockets.He whips out a pair of tickets and waves them in her face with a flourish. “Voila.”

Now, Jemima may be just over five foot on a good day and her dad could still pick her up with one arm, but there was some strength when she yanked Tugger’s arm down. “Tugger, I spend almost every single morning here and three evenings a week in a rink. Why do you think I want to be here during one of my nights off?”

Tugger sighs and starts ushering her up bleacher stairs. Jemima looked around, the ice looked empty without the nets or sticks or players. Jemima even caught herself thrown off an unilluminated scoreboard. She shivers and looks up. At least the championship banners still lined the high walls. The uncut ice shined like a jewel. If Tugger had been more forthcoming she would have brought her skates to tear up the ice a little. Then the night wouldn’t be a _total_ loss and the weird experience of seeing an alternate version of her second home.

Jemima makes sure to apologize to the families already in the bleachers as they pass. For a regular Thursday the rink sure was packed. Although the crowd has considerably more women and a lot less beer. Tugger brings her over to a front row seat in the small hometown rink. Right next to one of the boxes, but still between it and the entrance from the changing rooms. He gestures for her to sit with a mock bow and a sweeping gesture. Jemima plunks herself down and sticks her tongue out at him.  
No sooner does Tugger sit down, throwing an arm around her shoulders with a quick pause to ruffle her hair, than does someone call out his name. Growing up, her and her Dad called it the “Tugger Effect” because wherever they went, Tugger always knew someone.

“Tugger? You’re late.” A young man has appeared before them like magic. His black hair was a long shaggy mess of black. When he meets Jemima’s eyes, he gives a weak smile. Dark circles line his eyes, bright against his pale skin .The cup of coffee in his hand seems like it's not doing enough. He’s dressed in black sweatpant and a similarly dark hoodie. He stands in front of them with his hands on his hips and a fluffy white coat draped over one of his arms.

“Misto. You’re here! Thank you for the tickets.” He grabs one of the man's hands from his hip and gives it a kiss. “Always an honor to be in presence.”

He scoffs and pulls his hand away from Tugger. “Did you forget to tell your niece that you were coming here?” He asks, to which Tugger shrugs. “I don’t know how you parents ever let him supervise alone. You must be cold” Misto says as he passes the white coat in his arms over to Jemima.

“Oh, you wound me, truly.” Tugger clutches his hearts and falls back dramatically. “She’s here, isn’t she?” It’s when he gestures at his niece that he catches the look on her face. 

The coat was not her style. Not sweet little Jemima in combat boots and spiked collars. Jemima who had a limitless supply of chains and fluffy red hair that was never fully tamed. However, she had left her leather jacket at home which meant she’ll be cold in a band tee if she says no. Even if it was whiter than the teeth of the actor’s in Crest commercials. Of course, it wasn’t like Tugger didn’t recommend to his niece that she expand her repertoire beyond red and black. The bright white was a much further leap then when Tugger brought up the subject of a midnight blue. She extends a hand, donned with one of the pairs of her ever-present fingerless gloves, to Misto. Here face looked like she was trying to think of an excuse polite enough to turn down the coat.

Poor Jemima seemed like she didn’t come up with anything. 

“Thank you.” comes out automatically from Jemima. She accepts the coat and places it in her lap, smoothing it out with clear thought. She looks at her Uncle who has that look he gets when he’s about to be troublesome. 

“Put it on, Jemmy.” He encourages her with false sweetness. Jemima’s chains jangle at her waist as she stands back and tugs it on quickly. She lifts her arms as if to say “Happy?” Unfortunately, her hands don’t make it completely out of the sleeves.

Misto sips his coffee and gives a shy smile. “It’s odd to see my sister’s clothes look big on anyone.”

“I have short limbs.” Jemima shrugs, accepting her fate. She liked her hands in the sleeve anyways. There were worst fits for a coat. Even if it was bright, hideous, and fluffy in the way she felt like it was on the verge of swallowing her. What horrible fake fur and there was so much of it. She sits back down. Misto takes a moment before deciding to side down on the other side of Tugger. Throwing out his cup of coffee to the nearby trash can at the end of the bleachers. 

“Will one of you please tell me what I’m spending the next hour watching?” Jemima asks, watching the occasional girl in a sparkly leotard running out from the changing rooms. Rushing over to some family before leaving as quick as they came. She had a bad feeling about this.

Both men look at her together and respond. “Figure-skating.” The two of them look surprised at their own unison. Misto casts his eyes downward and Jemima can feel her uncle shift closer to her.

Great. Now, not only is Jemima going to have to watch freaking _figure-skating,_ it’s awkward too. Stupid boys. Stupid Uncle Tugger and his choice in Tugger Time. She tries to get some white fuzz out of her palate. Stupid white coat. Jemima feels like she’s in the sourest of moods. White, what a stupid colour. It’s not even a colour. At least Jemima thinks it isn’t, trying to remember exactly what her teacher said about the colour white in seventh grade Art. You can only get it dirty. Jemima gets dirty just breathing next to the absolute animals she proudly calls friends. She can only imagine what prissy princess would wear this monstrosity.

Jemima groans involuntarily. She’s going to have to return the coat to that princess. Tugger gives her a squeeze. “You’ll survive, Jemmy. Besides, your dad was so proud when I told him. I think he thinks I take you to bars and drug dens or something.” He tells her. Jemima can’t help but giggle.

“Or something.” She agrees with a nod.

“Consider yourself lucky, The evening program is just Novice, Junior, and Senior. I thought I was going to die halfway through the Juveniles this morning.” Misto says quite sardonically. Jemima can see why Tugger is friends with the quiet dry man.

“You were here all day?” Tugger asks before Jemima can, she starts a note behind him. He looks at her pleased when he finishes speaking. The smug look with the way the cold rink was making his cheeks flush made him look drunk. Jemima sticks her tongue out at him.

“My sister helps coach some of the girls who were competing earlier and she got us up at the crack of dawn to take care of them. I’ve been braiding so much hair that my hands cramped. I was also on tissue duty whenever one of them lost and had a meltdown.”

“Poor boy.” Tugger cooes. Misto nostrils flare every so slightly as he just shakes his head. There was commotion as girls started pouring out of the dressing room, scattering throughout the rink. 

The girls tiptoeing about with their buns and tutus reminded Jemima of the backstage scatter before a recital at her father’s ballet studio. Excited whispers fluttering about like songbird wings. Before a game, these bleachers were usually filled with the sound of buzzers, cheering, unintelligible music that blares down from the high ceiling. Jemima loved the energy, thrived on it before her games in fact. Coming out with her team, proudly wearing the same colours as a wall of challenge lies before them. The best games are the ones she gets so excited for that her hands shake when she tapes her stick, the anticipation to fight and win calling too loudly to focus. 

Some people lived for the applause, but Jemima held that feeling the closest to her chest. The quiet excitement was so opposite it was like saltwater up the noise. The bleachers bubble with conversation, frothing with restrained noise. There’s the occasional classic tap of skates against the ground. The lack of noise made the rink feel looming and cavernous The red-headed girl hadn’t stepped foot in the rink for anything since hockey since her parents signed her up for figure-skating at 5 and were late picking her up. An hour too late. She caught the hockey bug when the high school boys team practiced their snapshots for warmup.

The thunderous THWPP of the pucks sailing burned in her mind better than any of her dad’s favourite symphonies.Her mom always joked they signed her up for hockey the very next day just to make her be quiet.

Fuzzy noise crackles over the speakers. The most monotone female voices says something that screeches it’s way out of the speakers. It was more static then english after but shortly after music played.

How come their music sounds better? The beats of a Rhianna song are only slightly distorted boom into the room. Jemima perks up at the sound of skates cutting ice. There’s a girl, center ice, in a bedazzled, peacock blue, satin leotard. Jemima watches her push off. She thought she understood dancing but the way the girl flapped her arms about and gestured between leaps looked garish. Eyes on the clock, Jemima was quickly beginning to grieve for her lost time.

The next one was just as boring.

And the one after that.

By the time Jemima has burned up the last of her willpower to politely watch, she’s heard more top 40 hits then she usually hears in a year. She looks to her right. When on earth had the two of them vanished? The bleachers next to her had emptied without her having a single clue. Jemima wraps her coat around her tighter, Munk would give his brother an earful if he knew he left Jemima alone longer than 10 seconds. Who is going to tell him, Jemima thinks, not me.

Probably.

She buries her face in the white coat, tucking her knees up inside it. If she was going to be alone and miserable, she could probably just sleep. She wraps her arms around her knees and blows so fur out of her nose. The coat was ugly, but it was very warm. Jemima does a deep sleepy inhale, slowly blowing it out of her nose. 

Huh.

She inhales again. The coat wafted up the scent of vanilla lotion and citrus peels. No, _orange peels._ It smelt sweet and just a little tart, with a bit of that chemically lotion smell. Jemima sniffed the coat again. Usually, the coats she borrows smells like B.O. 

That’s when Jemima catches herself. Sniffing a stranger's coat in public like a weirdo. Her cheeks flush and she’s glad for the white fuzz to hide her face. She will concede to the coat. It’s warm and it smells nice, she has worn coats that are much worse. Although, if she was wearing this coat in Scotland some farmer would try to sheer her for her wool.

The speakers cut from pop music and something pours out of them like a curtain of silk. Violins, soft and tentative, play the first few notes. Jemima sits straight up. She knows this song. She tilts her head to hear the music better. It was so familiar that the name was tap-dancing on the back of her tongue. She moves closer to the rink like the skater held some sort of clue. 

Jemima didn’t consider herself a talker. She wasn’t a storyteller like her dad or funny like her cousins, Jerrie and Teazer. If Jemima were to be asked about what she considered her best feature, she would probably list her ability to find the words whenever everyone else had lost them. Even when she was little and Electra was crying too hard to speak, Jemima would found the words that her friend was too distraught to look for. Tumblebrutus once confessed she talked him out of running away a few times even if she doesn’t remember saying much at all.

This meant that Jemima had a very short list of times she felt speechless. Once was when she found her parents, huddled together and crying in the night, after her sixth birthday party. Another was when she found a bird’s nest full of little blue eggs in the backyard .She had visited it everyday waiting for the baby birds. On day 100, she stood there, too lost to cry, as Munkustrap explains to her the painful truth of how not every baby bird makes it.

The third was dancing on the ice in front of her. The girls long limbs were stretched out, her fingers dancing as if to summon the orchestra. She was in a long sleeved leotard with fuzzy leg warmers resting atop her sparkly white skates. She spun in slow circles, low to the ground on one blade.

It was purposely in sync with the chorus as the brass instruments suddenly blared over top of the sleepy violins. It catches Jemima so off guard that her hairs stick on end. She doesn’t dare look away in her shock. The skater pushes off fiercely and leapt up, twisting in the air, and landing on one skate low and circling. It feels like the only sound in the air is skates pushing against ice and distant violins as the brass’s note was only as long as a breath. A long limbed leg stretches out before her as she swipes her foot into a fast spin. The lower she goes, she slows. She slowly stretches a foot out, just above the ice but never touching.

The brass overwhelm the violins entirely, shoving them aside to take the lead. Their dominance ignites something in the skater. Jemima’s muscles sympathize with the sheer force she kicks off with. The girl travels the ice, flourishing up into one spin then feels like it leads into the next. She skates by Jemima and the hockey player catches the skater’s expression.

Her face looks nonplussed as she passes by. By the set of her jaw, Jemima would almost say she’s bored. It’s the light in her eyes that lingers as she wooshes away. The eyes of someone so aware of how impressive they seemed and proud of it.

Maybe Jemima is just projecting onto the white haired girl. Jemima’s mouth dries as she watches her flex up a long leg, grabbing it when her foot is high above her head and pulling it behind her. Yanking herself into yet another spin on the ground. Jemima hoped it was jealously settling low and warm in her gut as she watched the girl chorus line between slow elegance and rapid passion. 

The air from the rink was magnetic. Jemima was pulled to watch closer as the violins and brass find harmony with each other. From the noises of awe that felt so far away, she knew that the dance in front of her was becoming more and more impressive. The skater gliding between this spin or that flip. They were so quick compared to the measured languid movement in between them. 

Everything was together, the rhythm, the music, and her dance. It was such an expression of the music that Jemima thought it could move her Dad to tears. It was so intense that Jemima felt herself forgetting to blink. 

The percussions crash, the orchestra flourishes, and the skater pulls herself into a tight stop. Jemima has never more happily given someone her applause. The figure skater bows from center ice. The whole rink had the same mind as Jemima and together they shower the girl of white with applause. 

When she skates off, Jemima sits herself down. Her body moves itself as she curls up into the jacket again. Her face feels warm against the fur. A weird daze was forming over her eyes. What was she doing? She scratches her head. Identifying the music? She questions herself trying to imagine what she was doing before she was hypnotized by a girl who floated on ice. 

Her mind was like a slippery fish. Wading in the pool of her thought, focus kept slipping through her grip. That girl. Was her hair naturally so white? How was she able to do all those jumps and land on one skate? Her eyes looked like they were such a clear blue. What was she trying to do? Something to do with music? The violins and brass play in her head and pull her back into remembering the dance that was burning itself into her mind.

“What was that freaking song called?” Jemima huffs to herself.

“Haydn’s Symphony 94, second movement. Also known as Surprise.” The response startles her into looking up

A pale hand stretches out in front of her. Open palmed and long fingered, the skin looks so soft and white like the material of-

“-You coat?” Jemima gets out. Her voice is too much of a squeak for her pride. She looks up into blue eyes and a soft smile on pink lips. The skater was in front of her. The skater was looking at her. She felt so tall even as she leaned forwards towards Jemima. 

“Yes, please.” The girl laughter is like windchimes in sunshine on the front porch of the family cottage. Jemima shrugs off the coat quickly, careful of turning the sleeves inside out. The blue-eyed girl draped the big fuzzy coat over her shoulders. “Thank you.”

Jemima swallows, wishing her mouth felt less dry. “You’re welcome.”

Under the other girl's stare, Jemima felt small. The hot gaze felt like it was picking at her, trying to stare past her flesh and into her soul. Jemima can’t bare too meet her eyes anymore and looks down. She hears the girl let out a little noise of concern. 

The bleachers creak as she sits down next to her. It’s so close that even though they aren’t touching, she can feel every movement as the girl shifts around on the bench next to her. Out of the corner of her downcast eyes, she can see her new companion pulling off her fuzzy white leg warmers

“Okay.” The other girl says so quietly that Jemima knows it wasn’t for her. The girl straightens up and clears her throat. Body heat radiates off of the taller girl as she lifts the coat open and looks at Jemima “You’re just in a t-shirt. I know that I’m gross and sweaty, but I’d hate for you to get cold.”

Jemima looks at the space between them. An irrational thought told her she would melt into a puddle if she got any closer. But, with that beautiful girl who was looking at her with those bright clear blue eyes, the thought of refusing her felt even worse. Jemima pushes herself closer. An arm wraps around her as soon as she was close enough. The girl of white drew her in close. Jemima shivers at the arm around her waist.

It was so quick and, suddenly, she was pressed against the side of a fairytale princess. The other girl shifts a little, moving her hands to hold the coat closed around them. Her arm never unwraps around Jemima. All she feels is the shifting muscle around her midsection.

“Thank you for keeping my coat warm.” The other girl keeps her voice soft like cotton buds. Jemima looks up. Her memory saves the way her lips move and neck muscles shift as she speaks. “I hope you enjoyed the competition or at least my performance..”

Jemima nods. Speak, mouth, speak. “It was so cool. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that music outside of my Dad’s playlists.” Stupid, she has no idea who your Dad is, Jemima kicks herself internally. 

The other girl brings a hand to cover her mouth as she gives a little note of windchime laughter. “I’m glad.” The girl leans both of them forward a little as she looked around. “Do you know where my brother went?” 

Jemima shrugs. “Wherever my uncle went, I guess.” 

The other girl’s glossy pink lips form a little “o” and something twinkles in her eyes. “I’m sure they’re nearby. I’ll need to remind my brother about leaving a lady alone, I think.” Her serious voice sounds just as lovely as her soft whispers. Jemima snuggles in a little deeper to the coat, feeling shy. Vanilla lotion and orange peels. The scent was warmer and more vibrant now that the owner was also in the coat with her.

“No, offense. Is this going to be going on much longer?” Jemima asks, up through the coat. 

The girl shakes her head, her hair in its bun bobbing. “I’m Victoria so not many come after me alphabetically. They’ll tally up the scores and hope that the master of ceremonies moves us quickly through the medals.” She stares off, clearly thinking about the competition.

“Victoria.” Jemima repeats, feeling the way the name sits in her mouth.

The girl, Victoria, quickly turns her head to look at Jemima. “Yes?”

“Sorry, I was just- I didn’t know your name.” Sometimes being honest is best, Jemima thinks. Even if it is a simplified honesty.

“Oh.” Victoria smiles at her in understanding. In the poor lightning of the rink, she seemed to shine. “I knew yours so I forgot to introduce myself.”

Jemima raises an eyebrow. “You did?”

“You know how it is.” Victoria gives a little shrug. “Misto talks a lot about Tugger and Tugger talks a lot about you. I also needed your name to get the two of you tickets.”

“Oh.” Jemima fidgets with her spiked choker. “Thank you.”

Victoria shakes her head. The arm around her waist gets a little tighter. “If I had known that it was a scheme for the two of them to hang out, I wouldn’t have helped. Especially since they just left you here. Do you even have any interest in skating?”

“Well, I do play hockey.” This gets her a very curious look from Victoria. “I play as an attacker on the high school team.”

Victoria looks at Jemima and then down at her lap, back at Jemima, lap, “I hope you take this as a compliment, but you’re definitely the smallest hockey player I’ve ever met.” Victoria gets the word out carefully. Laying one down and letting it settle before the next one, timid to cause an offense.

“Well, that just means I’m all speed. Hard to catch.” Jemima playfully bumps Victoria a little.

Victoria lets out a little hum. “I should catch a game some time, then.” Her voice sounds passive as she looks around the rink. “I’d love to see you play.” Jemima watches her eyes, but she never looks back at her.

The thought of Victoria standing in the bleachers, cheering at one of her games, sounds so pleasing. Bright and shining in the crowd. Her long arms around Jemima when she brings home another victory. Celebrating together.

Jemima’s mouth feels dry again. “Yeah, you should. I’ll get you tickets.”

Victoria goes to speak only for Jemima to let out a loud yawn. It startles both of them a little. They feel each other jump under the shared warmth of the coat. Blue meets brown and the two of them look at each other for a moment before giggling a little.

“Sorry.” Jemima gets out. 

“It’s fine.” Victoria brings down her hand from her giggling mouth. “My shoulder _is_ right here. You can sleep if you like, if you’re tired.” Her arm slides from around Jemima’s waist to rub up and down her back slowly. “I’ll wake you up.”

A rock and a hard place. Jemima blinks up at her. On one hand, she didn’t feel tired at all, on the other, it felt like a crime against beauty to turn down the offer. She daringly scoots herself closer. She gives herself a little shake that could be misnamed as a stretch and rests her head on Victoria’s shoulder. She looks up at the taller girl, checking her face for a sign she did something wrong. Nothing, so she shuts her eyes.

So close to her neck, all she could smell was citrus wafting off of Victoria. The other girl doesn’t give Jemima any sort of reaction, except for the slight fidgeting of adjusting her grip on the coat. Jemima’s chest fills with a slow peaceful inhale. She could live in this smell and warmth. In fact, if the world ended right now, Jemima wouldn’t be too cranky. A soft hand wraps around her small one. Her eyes looked up at the clock, maybe she can just close her eyes and savour this for a few moments.The smell, the warmth, the soothing hand on her back, the beautiful girl next to her, Jemima tries to memorize all of it behind the dark curtains of her eyelids.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
“Look at the two of them. They’re so cute all snuggled up.”

“Not too loud, you’ll wake them. Victoria is going to murder me when she wakes up. Shhh.” Jemima can feel the coat move a little, cold air seeping in. She floats in the in-between sleep and consciousness.

“Can you get Jemima home?”

“What?”

“Jemima. Home.”

“Ah, yeah, of course.” There’s a pause. “Why is your sister holding my niece’s hand?”

“Wha- They’re wrapped around each other and you’re going to complain about hand holding?”

“Listen, Misto. If your sister is making moves on my Jemmy then I am legally bound by Uncle Law to give her the shovel talk.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“She’s related to me. A hot commodity like that needs protection.”

“You’re going to feel so stupid when your niece comes begging after my sister.”

“Is that a challenge? You’re so on.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jemima wakes up in the darkness of her own room, swaddled by her comforters. The cellphone on her old bedside stand has the screen bright as it vibrates. With a yawn, Jemima reaches out to grab it. Blinking herself into a decent level of awake as she unlocks it. 

**2 new messages**

It’s muscle memory when she clicks it open. Her eyes still felt fuzzy so she rubbed them and squinted at her screen. The first message from an unknown number was a JPG. Jemima can make out her bright red hair and the black of her combat boots. Only her eyes and a bit of her nose are visible. The rest of Jemima was completely hidden under a certain fluffy, warm, white coat. The picture looks like it was taken from across the rink. A little fuzzy from the use of camera zoom.

**You looked so cute in my coat -Victoria**

**Author's Note:**

> Consider this beginning of my multi-part submission to the Cats fandom on the merits of Jemtoria. Hopefully my next oneshot doesn't y'know end up being 12 pages. I am comprised of nothing but headcanons and the chorus of "Old Deuteronomy."
> 
> Thank you for reading, leave a comment if you'd like. I am at:  
> Acatpersonapparently.tumblr.com


End file.
